Ya'aburnee
by half agony and hope
Summary: (Arabic): The hope that one's lover will die after oneself because of how excruciating life would be without them. Fourth in the "In Case" series.


**AN: Thanks to everyone for your continued interest in this series of oneshots! This one took forever to post because I wanted to get it exactly right, but I'm finally pleased with how it turned out.**

 **For those who don't know, this oneshot is the fourth in the _In Case_ series (following _In Case, Yours,_ and _Of Photographs and Promises_ ). I hope it was indeed worth the wait!**

 **I also feel compelled to point out that I don't speak Arabic, and I've never been to Morocco. If any Arabic speakers or world travelers out there find inaccuracies in this story, please let me know so I can fix them!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

* * *

 _Ya'aburnee_

 _(Arabic): The hope that one's lover will die after oneself because of how excruciating life would be without them._

Lisbon takes a deep breath, and the scent of Earl Grey wafts towards her. Elizabeth doesn't know it, but she's prepared tea for her guest exactly the way Jane would have had he been here.

Before her trip to South America, this olfactory reminder of Jane would have caused Lisbon's eyes to mist over. But now—after the trip that had changed _everything_ —Lisbon smiles at the familiarity and lets it envelop her.

She will see Jane soon enough.

Jane.

Her husband.

And she, his wife. The position had long been occupied by a ghost, and it is odd to think of Jane's wife as a living, breathing entity. Even odder to think that _she_ , Teresa Lisbon, is that entity.

Elizabeth, Lisbon's elderly next door neighbor, looks over at her. The older woman's gaze is penetrating and stoic, and for a second Lisbon is reminded of Cho. Age has not slowed Elizabeth's mind.

"What?" asks Lisbon after attempting to take a sip of tea from an orange Fiesta ware teacup and finding the liquid too scalding to even attempt to down.

Elizabeth pushes a stray strand of graying hair behind her ear and leans over to pat Lisbon's hand. "I'm happy for you, dear. Been happy for you ever since you got back from that Christmas vacation of yours. I'm glad you found what you had lost."

A denial is halfway out of Lisbon's mouth, but Elizabeth's eyes are trained on the gold chain around Lisbon's neck. The necklace is normally hidden from view under her sheriff's uniform, but Lisbon had been sloppy in choosing her attire for her day off, and a low-cut blouse reveals a cross charm, an engagement ring, and a wedding band hanging from her necklace.

Lisbon's hand goes immediately to the necklace, and she wishes for the umpteenth time that she was able to wear the rings freely on her finger. But no one must know that she is married.

Jane's safety depends on it.

She hasn't even told Cho, so she can't bring herself to tell Elizabeth. But Elizabeth seems to gather just as much from her silence as she would have had Lisbon begun babbling about her unexpected elopement.

"He picked out a lovely ring for you," notes Elizabeth. "I hope that, one day, I'll get to meet him."

Lisbon smiles at her companion and takes a sip of tea, which is now considerably cooler.

"I hope so, too."

* * *

It's been sixty-seven days since she's last seen Jane, and she can't stop trembling with excitement and anticipation. When her flight touches down at Mohammed V International Airport in Morocco, she is out of her seat and into the aisle before anyone else can even unbuckle their seatbelts. The wait for the other passengers to disembark is near torture.

Lisbon takes in the multitudes of languages being spoken around her—she recognizes a few words of Arabic and a great deal more of the conversation between two Francophiles. She is immediately grateful for her high school French class and the nights she'd spent tutoring her brothers in Spanish. Though she is by no means fluent in either, she is proficient in both—particularly in Spanish, which she knows will help her navigate the north of the country.

Signage in the airport is written in both Arabic and French, and Lisbon has no difficulties navigating her way to Terminal 1 and the rail station contained within it. Her train leaves within the hour. Despite her best efforts to remain awake, unconsciousness claims her quickly.

She switches outfits when she wakes up and, just as the train is pulling into the station, digs through her bag in order to find a scarf she'd packed before she left Washington. She twists the scarf around her head, making sure to cover her hair. She is glad to be in a country where modest dress is the norm—the headscarf will help her blend in.

When she flags down a taxi in Northern Morocco, she tries French first and is relieved when the driver can understand her words despite her thick accent and rusty grammar. She switches taxis not long after, and then again a while after that, in order to prevent anyone from following her. She is exhausted and jetlagged and sore from her journey, but she thanks her last cab driver, tips him well, and hitches her bag further up on her shoulder before heading into her hotel.

Her Spanish lacks sophistication but is strong enough to inquire at check-in whether Patrick Jane has arrived yet; the young man at the front desk replies that yes, he has, and he gives her the room number as Jane had requested.

Lisbon feels her heart tap against her ribcage.

He's here.

* * *

She knocks softly and hears quiet footsteps on the other side.

She feels faint.

The door opens, and she slips inside.

* * *

She is in his arms before the door is completely closed, and he kicks it shut without sparing it a glance. Suddenly Jane has backed her up against the door, his hands at the nape of her neck and his lips on hers.

Every time she thinks about pulling away for air, she remembers the sixty-seven days she has been deprived of his touch, and she dives back in again.

* * *

Eventually, though, he is the one to pull away, and he puts his hands on either side of her face to tilt her head upwards. Their eyes meet for a second then break contact to rove over each other, each of them taking in the changes undergone by the other in two months' time.

His hair is shorter, and he's shaved. He looks healthier, and he remarks the same about her.

"Marriage suits me, I suppose," she responds, and she grabs his left hand to look at the wedding band there.

"That it does, my dear," says Jane, turning his hand over in hers to lay palm-up before her. His grin is radiant.

She cannot help but smile back.

"How are you?" she says breathlessly, wondering how to go about learning everything that had happened to him in the past sixty-seven days.

"In love."

Lisbon smiles but rolls her eyes. "I meant, 'How are you feeling, Jane?'"

"But that _is_ how I'm feeling."

She swats his arm playfully and picks her bag off the floor from where she'd dropped it. "Who'd have thought the great Patrick Jane would be resorted to clichés?" she says, grinning at him.

"Clichés are about all I can manage right now," says Jane, and she is glad to see the return of his impish smile. "It's apparently become very difficult for me to think straight when you're in the room." He kisses her again. "How are you, love?"

She can't hide the yawn that escapes her. "Tired," she admits, "but I can't remember ever being happier."

The look of awe on Jane's face nearly makes her knees buckle, and she sits down on the bed. He kneels down in front of her, holding her hands in his, and she swallows the lump in her throat.

"I missed…" she tries, but then she chokes on the words, her emotions becoming too much. Jane gathers her in his arms and lays them down on the bed together, fully clothed, and she breathes easily for the first time in sixty-seven days.

"I missed you, too," he says, and the last thing she sees before she falls asleep is the gleam of his wedding band, catching the light through the window from the setting sun.

* * *

They wake up the next morning a few minutes after eleven. Though Lisbon still feels jet-lagged and slightly sluggish, she eagerly accepts Jane's proposal to explore the city.

They wander for a while, having absolutely no idea where they're headed—but that is a small concern, because they're _together_ and he's smiling and she's in love.

Suddenly they are overwhelmed by blue—dark blue, sky blue, navy blue, turquoise—covering nearly all the walls of the buildings and homes surrounding them. One house is precisely the color of Jane's eyes at the moment, and when she informs him of this, he intertwines their fingers, and it's easy to imagine he will never let go.

* * *

Jane spots a tea shop— _of course_ , Lisbon thinks—and they order the traditional _at tay_ , or Maghrebi mint tea.

Later, when she kisses him in their hotel room, he tastes of mint, and she thinks it has become her new favorite flavor.

* * *

After four days—far too few in her opinion, and in his—their bags are packed. Jane stands behind Lisbon in their hotel room, wrapping a new scarf around her head and over her hair. He'd almost bought her a green one to bring out the color of her eyes, but she'd protested, instead insisting on getting a blue scarf to remind her of the color's prominence in the city.

When his hands finally still, she leans back into him, and his arms wrap around her to rest on her stomach.

He kisses the side of her neck. **"** _Ya'aburnee_ ," he says.

"That's Arabic?" she asks. She feels him nod against her. "What's it mean?"

He takes a deep breath. "Literally, it means _you bury me_. What it actually conveys in Arabic is a little different. It means _I hope I die before you because life without you would be excruciating_."

"That's beautiful," says Lisbon. "But also kind of morbid."

She feels his silent chuckle. "Kind of like us, huh?"

Lisbon smiles, thinking of the work they had done together for the CBI before taking down Red John.

"Exactly like us." She sighs against him. "Jane?"

"Yes, Lisbon?"

" _Ya'aburnee_."


End file.
